


I didn't mean to hurt you, I didn't even think of you

by Ryenan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Death, Biting, CHAPTER RELATED TAGS:, Chapter 7 bloodplay, M/M, Serious Injuries, Slow Build Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Werewolf Bonds, the pack splits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8524336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: Stiles has to take drastic action to save his life, and the pack splits over it.





	1. Chapter 1

In Eichen house, trying to rescue Lydia, Stiles finds himself stuck in a room with feral, electrified Kira. She’s approaching him with an obviously malicious intent, backing him into a corner as she growls and sparks. She had broken his wrist by striking with the flat of her sword, a crooked hit that had left a gash along his cheek as well.

“Kira! Snap out of it!”

She snarls something in Japanese and raises her sword higher, preparing to strike.

“Scott! Help!”

No one replies, and he can’t hear any commotion in the hall. They must all be downstairs, in the supernatural ward.

He has no choice.

Stiles raises his arms, his broken wrist bending painfully, mumbles a short incantation, and she is blown back against the wall, her sword clattering to the floor. Stiles doesn’t hear it for the fire alarm, that starts up when a stray bolt of electricity hits the switch. Her back bends unnaturally against a metal shelf as her head snaps forward. She’s dead before she hits the ground, and Stiles gets half a second to choke up with self-loathing before he passes out.

 

 

It’s Peter that smells the acrid tinge of burnt flesh, hears the rushing heartbeat of a boy in shock over the klaxon of the alarm, tastes the blood in the air. As Scott, Malia, Liam, and Mason rush from the building with Lydia in tow, Peter hunts for Stiles in the maze of corridors. Too many rooms are marked “maintenance,” and it takes too long knocking down each door. Stiles is hard to pin down, the alarm and the smell of a hospital muddling his senses, and he roars in frustration. 

“Here! Over here, Scott, over here!”

Peter shoves open the door against the weight of Kira’s body and hauls Stiles upright. His leg is badly burned, deep tissue damage that will undoubtedly scar, and the blood on his cheek has run down to his lips and drips off his jaw onto his shirt.

“Peter?”

“Can you walk?”

“I can’t feel my leg.”

Peter scoops him up instead.

“My wrist is broken too. We can’t just leave Kira – where’s Scott?”

“Kira is dead, Stiles. Scott left with the rest of the pack and Lydia.”

Peter crouches slightly to open the door with the hand under Stiles knees, and then they’re out in the hall. The sound of running men echoes down the hall, orderlies coming to get them, or police officers.

“I need you to bust out that window, Stiles, or we’ll have to jump through the glass.”

It isn’t easy for him, but he musters up enough strength and the glass blows outwards.

“It’s a two story jump from here, Peter – “

The wolf just leaps.

They land okay, for a two story jump, but peter falls to one knee as the muscles on his legs try and knit themselves back together.

“Are you okay? That was too far a jump – “

“We had to get out of there. I just forgot I wasn’t an alpha is all. I could take a fall like that as an alpha. Let’s get going, we need to get you to the hospital.”

 

 

Stiles spends two days in the hospital as they try and salvage as much skin as they can in his leg. They come up with a halfway believable story – downed powerline – and none of the doctors know enough about electricity and power lines to question it. Melissa isn’t a nurse, and only comes to look in on him once. She doesn’t say anything just hovers in the doorway looking morose.

“Kira is dead, isn’t she?”

“You were defending yourself, Stiles – “

“I killed her, Dad!”

“Not according to the official report. According to the official report, she was sneaking into Eichen for who knows what reason and messed around where she shouldn’t. Her injuries were caused by blowback when she touched a live wire.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god – “

“Stiles, calm down. I’m going to take you home today, and Kira’s funeral is tomorrow. You should go to it.”

Then a doctor comes and the Sheriff steps out, going to fill out paperwork for his discharge. Peter comes back to the room as the doctor leaves.

“Scott hasn’t come by, has he? When I was sleeping, maybe?”

“Lydia was here, with Isaac and Jackson. Jackson knows what it’s like to kill when you don’t want to, So I think he was here of his own volition.”

“but no visit from Scott.”

“No. He didn’t come by. And he hasn’t called.”

Peter pulls a phone from his pocket. It’s a newer model than Stiles’ phone, but he hands it to him anyway.

“Yours died when Kira shocked you, so I replaced it. They managed to transfer your contacts and photos and all that from an online back up.”

Stiles unlocks the phone and opens messenger. His last conversation with Scott is there, but no new messages.

“Fuck. He’s mad at me. I had to do it, Kira was going to kill me. I had to.”

“I know it and you know it and your dad knows it, but Kira meant more to Scott than you do. That’s all there is to it.”

“He’s just mourning, he’ll come around. I’ve been his best friend for years. And if Lydia and Jackson, of all people, came to see me, then the pack doesn’t hate me.”

“About that,” His dad says, coming back into the room. “The pack is split. Really split, two different groups. Lydia, Jackson, Danny, Isaac, and Peter,” He counts the names off on his fingers as he goes, “are on your side.  Scott has Liam, Mason, Hayden, Boyd, Erica, and Derek.”

“Really split up? Totally separate? What the fuck?”

“Language, Stiles. Those of us that have been helping you with your magic know that you can’t control the intensity that well, but Scott maintains you didn’t have to kill her, that you used too much force because you’re jealous of him.”

“He’s out of his mind, Stiles. He thinks that just because you wanted Kira to go back to the skin walkers for more training that you hated her.”

“she needed more training, she is – was – too dangerous. The slightest thing would set her fox off.”

“we know, Stiles. It’s okay. Let’s go home now, your friends are waiting, okay?  Peter, can you grab a wheelchair?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Why are you being so nice to Peter? Hell, why are you even tolerating him? I thought you found him too suspicious.”

“He saved your life. And hell, when I really consider it, I can understand wanting revenge. He’s twenty-six, if you don’t count the time he was dead or in a coma. Young and stupid and angry. He saved your life, Stiles, when Scott left you behind. That’s enough atonement for me.”

When they get to the house they have to park on the street for all the cars cluttering the driveway.

“Ah, isn’t that Derek’s –“

“Yes. I’ll check it out, you stay here.” The Sheriff pulls himself out of the car and starts across the front lawn, hand on his gun. A moment later, Peter is pulling open the passenger side door of the cruiser and proffering Stiles a hand.

“I can hear them in there, it’s not a problem. Let’s get you inside.”

Stiles can barely walk, even with crutches. The wet grass of the front lawn isn’t helping at all, and it takes him a minute to hobble to the sidewalk and then lever himself up the front stairs with half jumps and his crutches. Peter doesn’t offer to help, just hovers behind him, and Stiles doesn’t ask for his help. He has to learn how to do this on his own. Still, it’s tiring, and he’s looking forward to a nap on the couch.

However, the pack – Stiles’ half of it, anyway – is arguing when they get inside.

Derek is standing by the tv, arms crossed. “You thought I would side with Scott? What?”

“You were at his house, for, like, hours yesterday. What were we supposed to think?” Isaac is sprawled across the floor, playing with his phone and grilling Derek without even looking up. Stiles’ dad must have decided it’s under control, because he’s in the kitchen, rifling through pizza boxes.

“Stiles, are you hungry? There’s some leftover pizza here.”

“I was trying to comfort him! I know what it’s like to have someone die when you aren’t there.”

“Stiles! It took you forever to make it up the driveway.” Lydia jumps up from the couch and shoves a stack of sheets into Jackson’s lap.

“Well my leg looks like cooked human flesh – there’s really nothing analogous for me to say, nothing looks like freshly burnt skin – but I think I made pretty good time when you consider that.”

Stiles doesn’t notice the way Peter closes his eyed and takes a deep breath, but Lydia does.

“Okay, no need to talk about it, we’ve all seen your file.” She gives a resounding clap and comes around the couch to smile beatifically at him.

“Stiles, pizza?”

Lydia takes the plate of pizza the Sheriff is offering from the kitchen and heads back into the living room. Stiles hobbles after her and sits heavily on the newly sheet-covered couch. Peter takes the crutches from him and lays them behind the couch where no one will trip on them, then slides around to perch on the end by Stiles’ feet. Jackson is gingerly helping Stiles lift his legs onto the couch while Lydia sets his pizza and a glass of water by his head.  

“Okay, so Danny and Jackson got the couch set up for you, and we brought down your laptop and your Xbox. Jackson and I will stay tonight so I can help with your bandages, and tomorrow – “

“I’m staying too.”

Lydia cocks her head and turns to stare at Peter.

“You’re on the rotation for Friday night.”

“Great, I won’t have to go home. Good thing I brought two sets of clothes.”

There’s a silent staring match between the two. Isaac is still playing with his phone, Jackson is looking nervous from the recliner – red ears, tense shoulders, too many fights between his parents that have conditioned this response – and John is trying not to laugh.

“Can I go home then?”

Lydia swivels, slick shoes on hardwood, and regards Derek without twitching another muscle.

“You. You are staying here. If you can comfort Scott, you can comfort Stiles.”

Derek glowers and Peter cracks a grin, but Lydia cuts Stiles off when he begins to protest.

“You need comforting, and I want to keep an eye on Derek. Peter, if you’re going to insist on staying, then you can take first patrol.”

This earns her three irritated huffs, but no further protests. She’s in control of the situation, and that’s what they all need right now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the slow update, thank you for sticking with me! if you have any thoughts about where you would like this story to go, I'd appreciate the help!

Peter doesn’t run the block, just clambers up the side of the house and sits on the roof. Running patrol is pointless in a neighborhood – too many obstacles, smells, people – watching is most effective. Besides, he could probably hear Scott’s noisy motorbike from a few miles out up here. The wind is biting, raising the hair on his arms, but the chill is nice. Sitting with Stiles the last few days, privy to his burns – he will never forget the feel of burnt flesh – he needs the cool air against the lingering heat of his own long-faded scars.

After a few hours, however, he’s iced over. He tries crawling in Stiles’ window, only to find that its anti-werewolf security features have been extensively updated. He settles for jumping down and coming in through the front door.

“Jackson, it’s your turn to freeze. Take a blanket up on the roof or you’ll be back in here in ten minutes.”

Jackson doesn’t really acknowledge him, but stands and heads for the stairs. Lydia must be asleep somewhere, because Peter can’t hear her. Stiles is asleep on the couch, so Peter keeps whispering.

“You can’t go out through Stiles’ window, he reinforced it with mountain ash. But the railing on the back porch is a good step up to the roof.”

Jackson turns on his heel and heads for the backdoor, but doesn’t grab a blanket as Peter had suggested.

“It’s your funeral, then.”

“No,” Jackson hisses, “It’s Kira’s.”

 

 

 

 “Peter.”

Peter snaps awake, instantly alert, from years of self-preservation instincts gone haywire.

“Miss Martin.”

“It’s time to change his bandages. Can you handle it, or should I call Jackson down?”

“I was with him in the hospital the last few days.”

“That wasn’t an answer. And I need someone to help hold his leg up. Can you handle it?” She’s remarkably terse for this early in the morning, her soft features, loose hair, quite the contrast to her irritation at him.

“I can handle you, Peter, can you handle this?”

“I have apologized for that, haven’t I? It would probably serve me to apologize again – “

Lydia doesn’t want his apologies. She understands what it’s like to not be in control of yourself, and that he was different before. Understanding doesn’t heal trauma, however. Peter is, actually, quite sorry for the damage he’s done. She’s such a bright mind, and her banshee powers are indispensable to the pack, but he broke her. He wishes he hadn’t, but not more than he wishes he was still dead. Priorities and all.

“I’ll be fine, Miss Martin.”

She just nods, seemingly satisfied with his tone, and peels the layers and layers of blankets back to get at his leg.

“What’s going on?”

Stiles is more focused and awake than Peter expected him to be, but that’s probably because he didn’t take his two-am pill dose. He hisses as she peels back the gauze, and the singed-sweet smell makes Peter gag. It’s how he imagines a poisoned apple would taste.

“Something’s wrong. Smells like an infection might have set in.” His voice is thin, more strained than he intended. Stiles squeezes his fingers – when did they start holding hands? – and Lydia nods.

“I want to rinse and clean this before we re-bandage if it smells off. Can you carry him upstairs, into the master bath? John has a tub. And Stiles should bathe anyway.”

Stiles doesn’t protest being carried upstairs, but almost falls off the edge of the tub when Peter tries to help him take his sleep pants off.

“Oh my god Peter, you can’t just pull my pants off!”

“Shh, your father is still asleep. You need a bath, Stiles, and if you let your pants touch that wound it’s going to hurt.”

“I can handle it. Hand me the bubble bath and get out.” Stiles waves his hand towards the cabinet under the sink, and then snatches the bottle from Peter.

“I can handle it, stop looking at me like that. Out!”

 

 

Peter joins Lydia in the hallway. She has a bag of medical supplies in one hand a pill organizer in the other.

“Were you really trying to take his pants off?” She’s leaning against the wall, staring at the ceiling, bare feet building up static as she slowly slides towards the floor.

“I think I have the most experience with burns. He’s going to call for help in – “

“Peter, come back.”

“Like I said.”

Lydia almost smiles, but she doesn’t look at him. It’s a positive step, and he smiles to himself as he steps back into the bathroom.

Stiles is teared up on the tub edge, pants off one leg and bunched around his knee on the other leg. Peter leans back out the door and takes the pill case from Lydia. Draining the pain isn’t a viable long term fix - Stiles can put up with a measure of brain fog so that he doesn’t start crying every time he’s away from a wolf.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” Peter says, shaking the pill box. “Some vicodin will do wonders.”

“Ugh, just give me the pill. I’ve been dry swallowing adderall since I was ten.”

Peter gives him the pill box, as asked, and watches disbelievingly as Stiles throws back a veritable handful of antibiotics, vitamins, and pain pills.

“How am I supposed to get my pants off? Even the cold air fricking hurts.”

Peter kneels before Stiles and pushes the fabric of his pants higher up his thigh.

“Roll the fabric tightly, and then stretch it out as much as you can. We play some real-life operation, and… and voila. No more pants. I think it would be better if Lydia cleaned it now, then you can relax in the bath. Alright?”

“Get me a robe?”

Peter twitches an eyebrow, but Stiles stares him down, shivering on the cold ceramic tub edge in just a pair of grey briefs and a scowl. Exposed skin means very little to a born wolf, but Peter isn’t stupid.

“Lydia doesn’t want to see me naked. Can I have the robe? It’s freezing.”

Peter sighs, but pulls a robe off the back of the door and tosses it to Stiles before ushering Lydia in.

“You should clean the burn now, and then Stiles can relax in the tub with his leg out afterwards.”


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles doesn’t get to make a choice about going to the funeral. He spends the day vomiting and shaking on the couch instead.

Jackson leaves with the intent of finding Scott’s half of the pack and shaking down one of the kids, Liam or Mason or Hayden, for information. Deaton is probably with them, might be helping, in his cryptic way, might know something. Jackson’s too angry, too jumpy, to be of any real use to Stiles at the house anyway.

That leaves just Peter and Stiles and Lydia, the three most stubborn people in the whole town, let alone the pack, to argue about a plan.

Peter wants to take him back to the hospital, which they try, but his condition only worsens as they head into town – just a few blocks away from the house and he’s vomiting blood, begging them to turn the car around.

Lydia wants to sit tight and research, not try and go out again. She thinks that it might not be a physical ailment, after taking his temperature for the fiftieth time.

Stiles wants to stop being sick for just long enough to fall asleep.

“He only gets worse when we move him into town, away from the preserve.” Lydia says, not looking up from the maps and books and screens she has scattered across the dining room table.

“Maybe it’s the movement, the car – “

“No, it’s the direction. Look at the map.” She beckons Peter closer, holds out her phone. She has custom overlays on the map application, tracing the telluric currents and more. “The farther we get from the preserve, even if I drive along the path of the telluric currents, the worse he gets. The more I feel like screaming.”

“I’m not asleep, you don’t have to whisper,” Stiles croaks, “You think it’s the nemeton.”

“Yes, but you’re not actively dying, or Jordan would have shown up to take you there himself. You’re only dying when we take you away from the forest.” She takes the phone back from Peter and zooms in on the map over the Sherriff’s station. “Jordan is still at work. It’s the nemeton, it wants to help you.”

“We’re not taking him to the tree. It’s dark magic, he could end up possessed again.”

“Peter – “

“No. What good could come of it?”

“I need the power to break the bond to Scott. I bet it’s pulling him too, and whoever gets there first gets the tree’s blessing, or territory, or something. Doesn’t that make sense?”

Stiles struggles to sit up while he’s talking, but neither Peter or Lydia move to help him. He looks like he’s dying, pale and strung out, and moving even a little makes him so dizzy he has to shut his eyes.

“If this keeps up, he’s going to be dead from dehydration before Scott even guesses the pack bonds are split, let alone that the tree is choosing a new alpha. We have to take him.”

Peter is unhappy, almost nervous, but he carries Stiles out to Lydia’s car for the third time that day. She sets up her phone GPS again to follow the telluric currents, just in case, but away from the hospital and town. Towards the preserve, the place in the woods where the paths combine, where the nemeton is, sometimes.

She parks just off the side of the road, on a quiet area near the shell of the Hale house. Stiles’ pallor and dizziness improved with every mile deeper into the preserve they drove, but they must walk from here.

Peter pulls Stiles from the car just as he put him in it, and bumps the door shut with his hip. They left the crutches at home, unsuited as they are for the terrain, and didn’t even put on his shoes. This is their only hope, and there’s no time to waste. Between the biting pain and dehydration weakness, he couldn’t hike into the preserve anyway.

The Nemeton is kind enough – or hungry enough, as Peter thinks – to guide them along quickly. When it doesn’t want to be found, it stays hidden, but now it’s practically clearing a path.

“I’m going to stay here,” Lydia calls, farther away than she should have been.

Peter turns around so he and Stiles can both see her, standing just on the edge of the forest. The shrubbery is pressing in on either side of her and the spindly, barren branches of the trees are reaching out to tangle in her hair.

“Yes, I suppose you are.”

“Be careful, Stiles,” she says, wringing her hands, “I’ll wait at the car.”

She extricates herself from the brambles as they watch, and heads back towards the car. She vanishes frim sight, the forest blocking their view quickly, and Peter turns back to the path – and there it is, standing in a dark clearing that hadn’t been there mere moments ago.

The wide old stump has begun to crumble while the sapling is ever stronger and taller. It’s nearly eight feet tall now, Stiles guesses, and a few inches around. The leaves change every time he sees it, oak to ash to magnolia, and it has a smattering of evergreen pine needles on it now. It looks healthy.

“Good to see that this… feud… hasn’t hurt it.”

“Do you come out here often? To check on the sapling?”

“Hardly that, now. No, I don’t, but you saw what happened when my pack died. It was a possibility that it would suffer.”

“You – the stump – “

“The nemeton was that big around, yes, “ Peter says, nudging the rotting stump with his foot, “and was impossibly tall. It was also a lot closer to the house, but I suppose it retreated here, deeper into the preserve, to protect itself after the fire.”

Satisfied with the integrity of the large stump, Peter sets Stiles down on it. The soft wood is cool on Stiles’ fevered skin, and he shivers.

Peter still has a hand on his shoulder, holding him upright and pulling the pain with the tips of his fingers in Stiles’ neck. 

“What do you feel?”

“Tired. You have to – hands off. It’s making me fuzzy.”

Peter backs away, just a few feet, close enough to grab Stiles if he collapses, but crosses his arms to keep from errantly interfering.

He slumps a little but catches himself with a hand against the cool wood behind him as the pain Peter had been pulling creeps back into his leg.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” he repeats, shaking his head, trying to think clearly. “Don’t pull that much in the future, okay, that hurts coming back.”

“Just trying to be helpful. You’re welcome.”

Stiles ignores him. “So what do you think? Just... touch it?”

“The tree? No. you’re already sitting on it. You need to make an offering to it.”

“An offering? You mean blood.”

“A finger or toe would likely also suffice.”

Stiles gives him a sharp look, tired of beating around the bush.

“Well I don’t have a knife, so snikt snikt, asshole.” He grabs Peter’s wrist with his immobilized, cast wrapped hand, two functional, spindly fingers and brute force pulling his arms apart.

Peter obliges, popping his claws out on the one hand, but doesn’t move to cut Stiles’ proffered palm.

“You do know what using my claws will do, don’t you?”

There’s something about the way Stiles isn’t looking him in the eye that answers the question.

“I brought you out here, not Jackson, for a reason. Your, ah, assistance will set you up as my second. It might even give you the alpha power, as the top ranking wolf. But it’ll still be my pack.”

“You’re tying us together if you do this.” Peter keeps his voice neutral, trying not to betray his feelings on the matter. He’s being offered power again, and trust, and a place in the pack – all at the side of the most amazing creature.

 Stiles must hear something in his tone, no matter how good he thinks he is at masking it, because he finally looks Peter in the eye.

“I know. Now cut me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, I know, it's been literal months. if you want to help me, I'd really appreciate it, and you would get to help make some of the storyline decisions! I have multiple drafts of where this is going, we could play pick your own adventure. Anyway my Tumblr is PoignantlyArrogant if you want to talk or offer assistance!


	5. Chapter 5

Palms are horribly sensitive, and definitely not an agreeable choice for sacrificial bloodletting. The wrist, leg, even the torso all provide less painful and bloodier opportunities. The palm, however, has a lot more inherent significance. The pain, the damage, the extended healing time and veritable uselessness of the appendage during that time - these all add to the weight and power of the blood. The palm, in this way, is second only to slicing open a throat.

Peter drags two fine tipped claws across Stiles’ palm diagonally, going slow, careful not to cut too deep and damage any nerves or tendons. It’s excruciating, he can tell, by the flush of Stiles’ cheeks and low hiss he makes, struggling to breathe. Stiles doesn’t cry out, strong as can be, just presses his hard cast into the soft wood of the nemeton stump in a desperate bid to distract himself with the dull pressure-pain.

The blood pools in slowly his hand, languid along the three inch cuts. The open wound hurts much, much less than the cutting, and Stiles is breathing regularly again as Peter relinquishes his grip.

“I don’t know what will happen, so stay close.”

Peter does, hovering but not touching, a warm presence at Stiles’ feverish side. It’s like a dream, to be this close to power and not about to kill for it, to be this close as an honored guest, a chosen participant, a trusted ally –

Stiles closes his damaged hand around the sapling and passes out.

#

He’s back in the endless white room, but there’s no nemeton or nogitsune or game of Go. It’s just him in the endless space.

He can stand on his own here, none of his injuries following him here, but is dressed in the same loose sweatpants and sad old flannel shirt combo he wore into the woods.

If only he had ever figured out where ‘here’ really is. The clinical white suggests that it’s his own magic, his own mind, creating the space, but you’d think his subconscious would know just how little he ever wanted to see this place again. It could be the Nemeton is in control, and just using images from his mind to build a space they can communicate in, but if that was the case the damn tree would be here too, not just him.

“Hello?” Stiles whispers, unwilling to speak to loudly and draw the attention of… whatever might be here with him. The nogitsune is far away, disposed of by Noshiko, but who knows what else lurks in the roots of the nemeton.

With the old stump crumbling, what will happen to everyone and everything buried with it? Will the pack – packs – have to rebury it all with the sapling?

“Stiles.”

Stiles pivots to find Peter has appeared by his side, looking much more irritated than confused, which is odd. He’s surveying the room, the space, and Stiles wonders if it looks the same for both of them. He and Scott and Allison never really discussed their sacrifice experience, and it’s much too late to do so now.

“Here again? I would have thought you’d hate this place.”

“I do hate it. I don’t want to be here. What are you doing here?” He can’t be sure it’s really Peter, not a hallucination or a trick, but he can’t ignore him on suspicion of intangibility either.

“You fainted, I caught you. Though I assume we’re both lying unconscious on the Nemeton now.”

“Wait – what do you mean, this place? You’ve never been here before.”

“To Limbo? Oh yes I have. I spent weeks here after you killed me, before Miss Martin brought me back.”

“So this is purgatory? Limbo? How the hell do we get out?”

“How did you escape last time? I don’t have anyone possessed on the other side this time.”

Stiles thinks. The memories from his possession are pretty fuzzy, with how often the spirit forgot to eat or drink or sleep. His body and mind were wrecked for weeks while he played catchup, tried to recover from malnutrition and sleep deprivation.

“I – I don’t really remember, I was so sick. Scott did something, in here, that fucked with the nogitsune and got it kicked out of here, out of my head.”

“That’s good. That means we don’t have to wait for someone to find us.”

“It’s probably.. I think it was a physical thing that Scott did?”

“Oh very likely, he’s not bright enough to come up with much else. Pain? Pleasure?”

“He – “

It dawns on Stiles, very, very suddenly.

“Let me see your eyes.”

“He bit you.”

“He bit the nogitsune. Your eyes, Peter, are you back to Alpha?”

Peter closes his eyes for a moment, just long enough to send Stiles’ heart rate through the roof – and when he opens them again, they’re red.

“You are,” He whispers. The nogitsune wants him to be a werewolf to ‘seal the deal,’ even though it will rob him of his magic. “Fuck.”

“Don’t be crass, Stiles. I can turn you with a bite. Sex is optional.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to say something glib, but the rush of goosebumps when Peter takes his wrist shuts him up.

“Do you want the bite, Stiles?”

“You’re such a drama queen, Peter. Don’t think I don’t remember you saying the exact same thing that night in the parking garage.” He’s trying – and failing – to keep the nerves out of his voice, too breathy and shaky.

“I like the parallel. I knew then you would make a great wolf, and it’s still true.”

“Do you think it will heal my leg? To turn?”

“Maybe. It might kill you, too, don’t forget that. We could wait, Deputy Parrish will find us eventually.”

“No. Do it.”

“Say it for me, Stiles.”

“Power goes to your head so quickly.” He says, irritation overcoming his fear for just a moment. “Yes, Peter. I want the bite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to do weekly updates, but if that falls through I'll try for every two weeks. I don't have much of a buffer built up on this story.
> 
> Check out my other current WIP, Perfume and Brine, for more regular updates.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Tags for this chapter: Biting

“I’m not healing! Your eyes are blue! It was a test. The tree was fucking testing us!”

Stiles is absolutely reveling in the blood still dripping steadily from his palm, proof he isn’t healing, isn’t a werewolf. Peter doesn’t look nearly as pleased as Stiles is, hopping up from the ground quickly to brush the dirt and detritus off his clothes.

“Don’t sound so pleased. You would have made a brilliant wolf, and I don’t appreciate having the alpha power snatched away from me again.”

“Oh, that’s true. Sorry.”

Peter says nothing, just smiles ruefully as he continues to brush imaginary dirt off his back and jeans, waiting for Stiles to offer his arms to be picked up.

He does, raising his cast bound hand first so Peter can pull him up to standing. He drops his hand almost immediately, before Peter even touches him, and starts to scrabble inelegantly at the buttons on the shirt cuff. There’s blood on the fabric, a wide dark patch against the light blue checks, more there than could have come from his other hand.

“Get this off me!” He’s panicking. It’s not the blood, he’s so used to that now, but the placement. It’s coming through the cast, or from under it, and there’s no way –

Peter catches his wrist and pulls the fabric apart, popping the two strained little buttons and splitting the fabric up to Stiles’ elbow. The cast is soaked with blood, the tough, hardened material deteriorating in his grip as he looks for the source.

“It shouldn’t do that,” Stiles says, as if it isn’t obvious that fiberglass shouldn’t peel away from skin like wet leaves.

“Stay still.”

Peter continues to peel the layers away, carefully, and they become more and more leafy the deeper he goes, straight through the formerly cotton padding. Stiles’ pale skin isn’t bruised or swollen, as it should be so soon after a break, and there are no open wounds on his arm – just the faint pink and white of well healed scars.

“The tree fixed my wrist? But all the blood – “

“Not the tree. The bite. My bite.” He traces the small scars on Stiles’ arm, pressing his fingers into the arc left by his teeth. The marks are mirrored on the underside of his arm as well, but not nearly as visible for how pale he is.

“I’m not a werewolf.”

“No,” Peter muses. “But you hold the alpha power, brought it out of Limbo, I assume.”

“How should I know?”

“Try to use your magic. Something simple that you know you can do.”

Stiles gently picks up a twig between the fingers on his damaged hand, since Peter is still examining his other, newly healed wrist with something like pride on his face.

He tries to make the little twig float, tries harder than he ever did when he was first learning, but nothing happens. He can’t feel the magic at all, in him or the twig or even the nemeton at his back.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. I’m not a wolf but I don’t have any magic. What the fuck is going on?”

“The bite on the wrist is a traditional bonding bite. It helps newly bitten wolves bond to the alpha and pack… I didn’t remember that when I was out of my mind, when I bit Scott. Things would have gone a lot differently if I had.

For us, when you added your magic into the mix, and the sacrifice to the nemeton – it’s a different kind of bond. We just need to complete it.”

Stiles chews on his lip, considering what Peter has just revealed. He knew there would be a bond when he had Peter cut his hand, but that was a bond he could control. This is a werewolf bond, created through the bite, and it is not likely that there is much control either of them can exert over it.

That’s concerning, a bond with no control, but the only other option he can see is doing nothing – which will leave him as an alpha power incubator with no magic, and an easy target. That just can’t happen.

“I have to bite you, don’t I? with my blunt human teeth. And dislike of cannibalism.”

“You don’t have to eat me, Stiles. That’s not a kink I’m into, anyway. Are you? I can be flexible.”

“Do you really think bad sex jokes are appropriate right now? Or ever?”

“No, of course not. That’s why it’s fun. I do wish you’d blush like that more often.”

Stiles groans and pulls his arm from Peter’s loose grip.

“You’re disgusting and I hate you. Which wrist do you want?”

“My shoulder. It’ll be easier for you to draw blood with no bones in the way.”

His reply comes much too quick, and Stiles notices, grows suspicious of the wolf.

“Is that going to change the nature of the bond? Don’t try and pull one over on me, Peter.”

“It might make you the…dominant partner, but it should still make me alpha. It’s how my great grandparents were bonded.”

That is absolutely not what Stiles was expecting, at all. He could be lying, or he could just want a place in a pack so badly that he’s willing to be second.

“Tell me.”

Peter sighs. “She was the oldest of eight, all sisters. To keep the territory in the Hale name, her husband came from a weaker pack and took a subservient position, with a bond bite on his neck. For a wolf pair, it creates a power imbalance, but for us it would indicate to established packs that you’re my equal, even as a human.”

“So if we do this, I’m basically marrying you.”

Stiles doesn’t really know why he’s questioning it, he’s going to do it. What better way to keep Peter on a leash? He’s not an enemy anymore, but he’s still dangerous. That’s why he brought him out here in the first place – make him feel needed, wanted, like he has a place in the pack. Give him a reason to not raze it all to the ground and start again.

“Think of it as a political alliance by marriage. You need me, I need you, the pups need us both. For the good of the pack.”

“The good of the pack,” Stiles repeats, half laughing. “There are what, seven of us? Six? A pack that’s half human is barely a pack. Do Lydia and I even count as human?”

“Stiles, you’re just wasting time.”

“I know. Are you ready?”

Peter pulls his shirt off over his head smoothly, sets it within easy reach.

“Your bite will bleed, I won’t heal quickly. Don’t let up when you taste blood – that will just be your canines, your sharpest teeth, breaking skin. You have to bite down until all your teeth draw blood.”

“It has to look like this,” he continues, tracing the scar on Stiles’ arm again, “For it to work. Don’t let up until I say to.”

Stiles nods and tries to rise up on his knees to match Peter’s position. Peter has to help, as weak as he is, and holds him up with a hand around his back.

“Bottom teeth here,” Peter says, drawing an arc in the hollow above his clavicle. “And dig in.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Tag: bloodplay. it's very mild, but if that bothers you at all, leave me a comment and I can post a clean version of the chapter!

Having Peter’s hand around his back stops being weird very quickly, as the bond strengthens with every tooth sunk into Peter’s flesh. There’s a part of his mind that feels like shattered glassware, fallen from clumsy fingers, shards scattered over the kitchen floor dangerously. There are a few whole glasses, like the fine, crystal stem goblets kept in the back of the cabinet, the bonds to his father and Peter and Isaac, Jackson and Lydia and maybe Derek.

 “You did it, Stiles, there you go. You can let go.”

He does, releasing his grip with a sick noise, and draws a deep breath. There is blood dripping from his teeth on to his lips and chin, his tongue, down his throat, incredibly warm. Officially breaking his tie to Scott by bonding with Peter has opened up a new part of his mind, his magic, exposing the pack bonds he didn’t know he had. He is the de-facto alpha for this clutch of wolves, along with Peter. It’s wild, unrestrained power.

They’re only inches apart, and Peter is compelled to close the gap and taste his blood on Stiles’ shaking lips. He sucks and licks at the blood on Stiles’ bottom lip and the corners of his mouth, an obscene parody of a kiss, chasing his own blood over Stiles’ pale skin.

Stiles freezes, slowing his breathing as he tries not to flinch, lest Peter bite off his lip.

“How do you feel?”

He’s not sure. Like a lost tooth, all he can concentrate on is the empty space and the taste in his mouth, the shattered glass of people he thought were his friends and the blood of a man he knows isn’t, but could be.

Peter continues his ministrations down Stiles’ neck, and Stiles lets him. If he doesn’t think about it, the touch is just comforting, cleansing, sensual. They’re both so flush with power and magic that instinct has taken over. He wants Peter, in an abstract way, a vague notion that being here with Peter now is better than being alone could ever be.

Peter is working his way back up the other side of his neck, and Stiles ducks his head, encouraging Peter to come back up to his mouth. They kiss without fangs, without biting, the taste of Peter’s blood between them enough to hold their interest. Stiles’ hands are cool against Peter’s skin, rough fingertips skating through his hair. His eyes blaze white-gold behind thin eyelids, magic free and wild, and everywhere Peter touches feels like fireworks under his skin.

Peter is the first to pull away, and Stiles lets him, doesn’t chase his kiss. Peter has been here before, when the flush of power takes over and control becomes difficult. He knows how to center himself – Stiles does not.

“We have to stop.”

“Why,” Stiles whispers, bloody palm coming to rest on Peter’s cheek. The wound has closed, mostly, but if he flexes his hand he’ll pull it open again. His blood has a hint of rose in the tangy scent, and Peter wants nothing more than to taste him. Stiles knows this, is tempting him on purpose, too clever for his own good.

“Because,” Peter says, voice cracking – he can almost taste the roses and iron when he opens his mouth – “Because this won’t be what you want once you come down from the high.”

 “A taste wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Peter clenches his jaw shut and stops breathing as Stiles extends his fingers, peeling the thin scab apart, small pin pricks of fresh blood suddenly wet against Peter’s cheek.

He stands, pulling away from Stiles with some difficulty, breaking their contact and putting several feet between them.

The glow fades from both of their eyes slowly, and it leaves Stiles out of breath and dizzy. He drops from kneeling, bracing himself on the nemeton stump and splitting the cut on his hand even more, and tries not to look at Peter.

All his magic, that he used to have to fight and strain to access, is available now, coursing through his blood. It’s not as oppressive, enveloping as it was moments before, but it’s still a heavy pressure in his mind.

“I feel weird. The bonds… can you feel that? Them? It’s like glass shattered all over the floor, and I’m trying not to step on any and cut myself, only there’s no glass and no floor because it’s magic and all in my head, but the magic is trying to push me on to the floor all the same.”

Peter is quiet for a long moment, trying to remember, trying to breathe around the blood on his cheek.

“It is different, “ he says, hesitant, “for a born wolf than bitten, and different again for a spark, but when I was the alpha…”

It’s so hard to remember what he did, felt, said, when he was moon-mad. The alpha power is heavy magic, and that which giveth also taketh away.

“You’re the alpha again now, Peter.”

“The first time is always special. I can temper the power now, l know a little better how to control it. Thank you.”

He gives in, swipes a finger across his cheek to gather the sparse droplets. He tastes even better than Peter could have imagined, the acidic rose flavor of his magic a perfect complement to the iron wine of human blood.

“We – we’re not going to talk about the kiss right now. I feel like I’m being suffocated by all this magic.”

“When Laura was killed and the power defaulted to me, it wasn’t like she vanished from the bonds. It was like I was being haunted.”

“Yeah, it’s like that.”

“Why don’t you let go of the nemeton?”

The sapling had grown another foot, and put out new branches as well, while Stiles clung to its old stump. It’s still growing as Peter speaks, a truly curious thing to watch, with small cherry blossoms blooming alongside oak leaves. It doesn’t seem to be draining Stiles, more of a cyclical connection, His eyes and skin thrumming with power.

Stiles lets go slowly, hand stiff and fragile, but he wobbles on weak knees without something to steady him.

“I’m really tired, I don’t know if this actually worked.”

“It did, I promise. I can see the magic on you. You just to need rest.” Peter pulls his shirt back on, barely twitching at the pain of stretching his bitten shoulder.  It’s novel, and the drag of fabric over the open wounds is a reminder of the bond more than a nuisance – for now. He probably won’t be so rosy-eyed on day four or five.

Peter helps Stiles up to standing, lifting him easily, and helping him balance as he sways on one leg. There is power, like a low-grade current, where their skin touches, warm and enticing, but neither lets go. Peter can hold back the shift, restrain himself, but Stiles struggles, his eyes flickering with a soft glow.

“You can pull power from me, Stiles. A perk of our bond, don’t fight it.”

“A wolfy power bank, huh? Great. Just pick me up and let’s get out of here.”

Peter doesn’t move to lift Stiles, just gently pries his arm out of Stiles’ grip in demonstration.

Stiles strength and balance immediately falter, and Peter has to grab him to keep him upright. The contact strengthens Stiles once more, but he still doesn’t relinquish his control and bleed off some of Peter’s energy – his eyes continue to flicker as he tries to close off the connection.

“What the fuck have you done, made me dependent on you for power? I should just kill – “

“You’re just drained from interacting with the nemeton and getting us out of Limbo, Stiles. You’ll recover, but for now, just use me.” Peter grips Stiles’ arms tightly, painfully, as if trying to force his strength through his skin.

“Ow, fuck, Peter, stop! Stop!” There is real pain in Stiles’ eyes, the pale flickering glow replaced with tears. There will be ugly bruises under Peter’s fingers, tiny claw marks that will scar, a matching set on each arm.

Peter lets up slowly, his claws pulling out of Stiles’ pale skin with a soft but sickening noise. He didn’t want to hurt him, he just got carried away –

“So obviously you don’t have the alpha power under control yet,” Stiles says, throat catching and tears sliding down his cheeks. The tiny pinprick punctures of Peter’s claws hurt immeasurably more than the cuts across his palm, likely a side effect of their bond.

Peter is still holding him up, but his touch is light, just enough to keep him from tumbling to the forest floor. He looks completely blank, almost catatonic, staring at the cuts on Stiles’ left arm with mouth slightly agape. If Stiles’ didn’t know better, he’d say he looked stricken at the thought of hurting his… bond mate? Co-alpha? Whatever. But Stiles knows that it’s more a fear of losing control, losing his sanity again.

“But you’ll get there, okay? It’s been a long day. Don’t freak out on me here, you’re my only way home. We both need rest, and then we can re-evaluate. Okay? You in there?”


End file.
